


The London Occurrence (Jim Moriarty/Reader)

by thistledown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Drabble, Flirting, Kidnapped, Multi, Other, Reader-Insert, Second Person, Self-Insert, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistledown/pseuds/thistledown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wake up in a room with a man in an expensive suit. That tourist-y visit to the Tower of London apparently didn't go quite as you'd expected it. Jim Moriarty appears to have taken a shine to you, and it seems this is the only reason you aren't dead. ...Brilliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The London Occurrence (Jim Moriarty/Reader)

**Author's Note:**

> Well then! You can call me Thistle. Lovely to meet you dear.
> 
> This is my first every properly thought-out-and-written fanfic, and was originally a voice kink prompt from a friend.  
> I'm not sure if I'm one for Moriarty or not (I fluctuate between thinking he's brilliant and getting creeped out) but I thought I'd carry it through to the end :P  
> It's not finished, I don't think - may add a chapter or two where it gets more interesting than this - but to be honest I'd just like to know what you all think because second person is a narrative I'm really not all that familiar with, and perhaps it shows.
> 
> I would love it if you could give me a review so I can decide whether to keep on writing this one. Be as critical as you like, I'd love some constructive stuff.
> 
> Enjoy! :3
> 
> UPDATE July 17th 2014: PART TWO IS COMING.  
> UPDATE Oct. 25th 2014: Part Two currently at 2851 words. I'm going to give you something that counts.

 

Darkness. Dull. Dark purple. Aching. A swimming cloud of noise somewhere above your head. Muffled undulations and changing tones. Growing clearer, slowly, painfully – a voice. A voice with a certain intense casualness that blooms and magnifies and fills with unintelligible words as your consciousness pulls itself up from the deep.

Then, abruptly, you are back within yourself. Metal presses into the soft skin on the back of your knees, and you feel as if you’ve been dumped into this chair rather unceremoniously. A throbbing behind your eyes announces itself along with a stinging sensation at the top of your forehead. It feels hot. Raw. You realise then that the voice has transformed into real, comprehensible sentences and words.  
“...of course, you can always predict what a security guard’ll do if you find yourself having to shoot a man in front of him. Reach for the old walkie-talkie, just like I said. So you see, it’s the familiar routine of waiting till his eyes flick away for juuust a second, and there’s your moment. Clip him round the head, punch his throat, shoot _him_ too, whichever way you like. Easy to incapacitate someone if they’re looking somewhere else. But you know me. I’m not usually one for hand-to-hand combat. Easier to get someone else to do it for you. Less mess that way.”  
  
Your eyes feel dry, and you gingerly creak them open. Too bright, at first. Squeeze them shut again. The next time it’s better. Clear. A dull grey room with ceiling tiles. An office, it seems. Your breath hitches as a muddle of confusing images clouds your mind from what must have happened before this.  
A tiny sound, it was. Yet he hears.

Four crisp, well-heeled footsteps from somewhere in the back of the room. The soft whisper of silken materials moving against each other.  
“Ah, back with us then, my dear?”

He stands with his head rolled back on his neck a little, surveying you with stark eyes the colour of murky water. Arrogance is written into the lines of his jaw, his folded arms and that immaculate, perfectly tailored suit – and those dark eyebrows harshly skimming the tops of his eyes. Too low. Already you do not want to trust him. You lift your head slowly from where it was lolled back against the chair, almost unable to break eye contact. He is dangerous.

He blinks, is apparently waiting for you to speak. His mouth turns down in a humorous grimace with widened eyes as one hand runs through slicked hair as dark as his eyebrows.  
“Well then. You’re awfully quiet. I’m starting to wish I’d left you there.”  
He’s Irish, it seems. You’re not sure which part of Ireland exactly. Swallowing, you glance away for a brief moment. Right then.  
“What, er...?” You look up to see a fierce glimmer of hard intelligence behind his eyes and instinctively feel that he knows every question about to come out of your mouth. So you leave it there. “...What?”  
  
The corner of his mouth twitches into a wry smile. “I might’ve hit you too hard there. We were both at the Tower of London at the same time. You were visiting the crown jewels. I was doing a little research. Ran into light trouble involving two security guards and renegade with a semi-automatic pistol. They threatened my plans. I took care of them. You, however, were a witness to be dealt with. Thought I’d keep you for a while... you’re pleasing to look at.”

“Ah. I remember that now.” Another thought strikes you, and it makes you cringe. “...You killed them, didn’t you? You didn’t just knock them out like me.”  
He smiles more broadly this time, and slides into a chair opposite you. All grace and sinew, but not like a deer; like a serpent.  
“See. You’re getting to know me.” His voice slides up and down, musical. “We _are_ still inside the Tower, if you’re interested. Locked in. Back rooms are abundant. ‘S brilliant what people do if you pay them.”

You sniff once and ignore the clanging in your head, though it is dimming. You sit up properly; cross one leg over the other. Force yourself to stay calm, to appear relaxed. He is dangerous. You must not allow this power balance to tip any further.  
“So who are you?” you ask, trying to make your voice silky, likeable. He kept you because he liked you, so you feel that it’s crucial to keep things that way.  
This appears to please him. A grin, a slight shake of his head. “ Jim Moriarty. Call me Jim. And I got _your_ name,” he slides a hand into his pocket and brings out a very familiar-looking coin purse, and with it, your ID, which he looks upon now with one eyebrow raised, “ _Very_ lovely. Brilliant surname, that. Used to know someone who... hm. Don't have any family from Ireland, do you?” You shake your head, and he gives wry smile. “Ah, never you mind then."

There’s something so delicate in the way he pronounces his ‘t’s – a whisper of an ‘s’ hidden within them, and a full roundness in everything else.  
You are old enough to look after yourself, you say in your head. You don’t seem to be in any immediate danger despite what he claims to have done, and you feel... fine. Almost at ease.  
Odd. But you can deal with this. Pull out all the charm.  
“Thank you, I suppose,” you reply, and gaze quizzically at this man. It’s his move now.  
  
He looks at you with those dark, dark eyes, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. Arms reach behind his head as he stretches languidly, groaning with satisfaction, and settles back down with a contented sigh.  
“Well, my dear,” he says, his words low and growling, “The security cameras were disabled before they saw me take you, and it wouldn’t be past me to knock you out again and slip you something to make you forget the last few hours. And so... the choice is all yours, it seems.” Deliberately, quietly, he sits back and folds his arms, his gaze intriguing rather than intimidating. “Would you care to stay... for a while longer?”


End file.
